Murder at Newstead Abbey (14 page)

“I haven’t had a moment alone with him. I’ll tell him while we’re driving. Mrs. Ballard won’t be coming with us. What are we looking for?”

“Clues, anything to prove it was Vulch here last night.”

Coffen looked at the window and tried to gauge how far away Vulch must have stood to send the rock through the window. Even with a strong pitching arm, he couldn’t have been very far away. It was a largish rock. The rock, he was disappointed to see, might very well have come from the grounds of Newstead Abbey. There were similar ones, though smaller, nearby. A thorough search of the whole possible pitching area revealed no clue. Vulch hadn’t obligingly dropped a glove or a calling card or torn a corner from his jacket, to hang on a protruding bush.

They were about to go inside when the Richardson’s familiar carriage was seen bowling along the road toward the abbey. It was not accompanied by footmen on this occasion. “A bit early for a visit,” Coffen said.

“Country manners,” Corinne said with a shrug, as they both darted inside to hear what the visitors might have to say.

The reason, which everyone including the visitors themselves considered a pretext, was a gift of a brace of pheasants. Byron and Prance came from the library to greet them. Luten was in his room writing letters to Whitehall.

“I noticed you’ve got a broken window,” Lady Richardson said, looking at the oilskin covering. “Was it a bird, drunk on fermented fruit? We lost a window that way earlier in the year.”

“No, actually someone pitched a rock through it last night,” Byron replied blandly, as if it happened every other day.

“You don’t mean it! Did you hear that, William? I hope you caught the scoundrel?”

Coffen watched the visitors closely. Unless they were good actors, they were genuinely surprised. Not that he suspected them of any involvement in it, although Fletcher had said something to suggest that Vulch had been paid to toss the rock. And the Richardsons were his closest neighbor. He judged the lady, in particular, to be more interested in Corinne’s gown and hairdo than the window. Funny how Corinne, in a simple merino gown with only a bit of lace at the neck, looked so much more like a lady than Lady Richardson, all wrapped up in fox pelts and a hat that held a dozen plumes.

“No, he got away,” Byron replied. “Have there been other examples of this sort of vandalism in the neighborhood, or have I been singled out for special attention?”

“I wonder if it
was
a bird that broke our window, William?” she said, hoping to share the glory of being vandalized.

“No, ‘twas a bird,” William said. “A large duck. It lay on the ground with its neck broken. It happens from time to time in autumn.”

“That will teach them to eat poison fruit,” Lady Richardson said, and laughed. “They don’t call fools birdbrains for nothing. And speaking of brains, but not of course of bird brains — quite the contrary — have you intellectual gentlemen been doing some writing?” Her bright smile included Prance as well as Byron, despite the fact that neither the bookshop nor the circulating library had ever heard of the
Rondeaux.
“You mentioned a gothic novel, Sir Reginald.”

“My work is still in the research stage,” he informed her. “Oh, and speaking of research, I came across a letter to Lord Byron from Jamaica.”

Her eyes flew in alarm to her husband, who leaned forward in his seat, but said nothing. “Oh really! May I see it?” she asked, in a strained voice.

“It’s not very interesting, I fear. Something about buying a horse. Was there anything in that box I gave you last night, Corinne?”

“I didn’t get around to looking,” she said. “I was about to when the rock came hurtling through the window.” She looked around for the box. “I expect the servants took it back to the library.”

“Would it be a terrible imposition for me to ask you to show me the letter, Sir Reginald? I’ll go with you to the library, if I may?” She rose as she spoke, setting aside her reticule and gloves.

Sir Reginald assumed this was a provincial effort at flirtation and humored the creature. “Ah, there is the box,” he said, when they were in the library. It sat on a table, the contents stuffed in higgledy-piggledy by a servant.

She took a look through the box, glancing at the dates. “No, this doesn’t look like the right period,” she said. Then she looked all around the room, at the glazed doorway that led to a patch of earth and weeds beyond, then at the rows of books that lined the shelves and shook her head. “How does he find time to read all these?”

“We who love the printed word always find time,” he informed her. As she seemed not at all interested in flirting, Prance soon led her back to the salon, where she sat beside Corinne and praised her gown.

“Don’t try to tell me that came from Mrs. Addams,” she said. “A French modiste, I expect?”

“No, a London modiste. But I think you wrong Mrs. Addams, Lady Richardson. She did a fine job on this shawl, don’t you think?” She held a corner up for the caller to examine.

“She’s well enough for a straight seam, but if you’re after a gown, Madame Blanchett in Mansfield is your woman. Tell her I sent you. I give her all my custom.”

“I wasn’t planning to have any gowns made up.”

“Why would you indeed when you can buy in London? You must think me a perfect dowd.”

“Certainly not, Lady Richardson. You look very elegant.”

The lady was pleased with this vague compliment.

Byron offered tea. Lady Richardson was inclined to accept but Sir William reminded her that they had just dropped in to deliver the pheasants, and that he had an appointment in Nottingham in an hour.

“Yes, William, of course,” she said meekly, and immediately arose.

They left, with promises to meet soon, and urgings for the company to drop in at Redley Hall any time. They didn’t stand on ceremony with old friends. As Lady Richardson directed this at Corinne, she just smiled and nodded.

“I wonder what she considers a new friend,” Prance said, when they had left.

“I expect she’s short of feminine company,” Corinne replied.

“Positively
starved,
as I recall,” Prance said.

Corinne felt sorry for Lady Richardson, she had seemed so grateful for that crumb of praise. It was the provincial’s uncertainty that she was wearing the right thing, the right hairdo, that Londoners weren’t laughing at her efforts at fashion. Corinne had felt the same when she first entered society. Unlike Lady Richardson, she had a husband and friends to guide her. It was a pity Lady Richardson couldn’t talk that husband of hers into taking her to London for a season. She would soon see that London ladies were not much different from their country sisters.

Coffen soon left to continue his search for clues. He went straight to the inn, where Tess greeted him with a smile. She served him his ale and again sat down with him for a moment.

“Well, was your fellow in to see you last night?” he asked. “Vulch, I’m talking about.”

“He’s not my fellow! He was here, but I was just leaving.”

“Ah, what time would that be?”

“I was off at eight-thirty.”

Then he could have ridden to the Abbey and heaved that rock. Lucky he hadn’t gone straight home, or he’d have caught them rifling his cottage. P’raps he was out pitching the rock while they were at his shack. “Did he stay, or come back later?”

“I wasn’t here. Why do you want to know?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I could ask Henchard.” She strolled over and chatted a moment to the proprietor. When she brought Coffen a refill later, she said, “Happens he left, but came back later. His lordship’s man from the abbey came looking for him late. He’d just left but the man went chasing after him. What’s afoot, then?”

“I’ll tell you when I find out. Was Vulch here at the time Byron had that wild party on the island?”

“No, he was in London then. I could be more help if I knew what you was after Mr. Pattle.”

“I’m just trying to figure something out. That’s all. It ain’t clear in my own head, Tess.”

“Something to do with that poor girl buried on the island, is it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Vulch had anything to do with his lordship’s parties. Nobody got killed there anyway. Everybody knew who the girls were — a bunch of trollops. No better than they should be.”

“I was going to ask you about that.”

“They weren’t complaining. They were chirping merry after the gents left town, spending their ill-got gains.”

“So you don’t figure the body in the grave was a local girl at all?”

“Folks seem to think it’s Lady Richardson’s maid, Nessie, that some fellow from London followed her and shot her.”

He nodded. “I expect that’s what happened.” He took a sip of his ale and said, “We had a bit of excitement at the abbey last night. Somebody pitched a rock through the window.”

“Really! Why?” she asked with a frown.

“That’s one of the things I’m trying to figure out. I think it was Vulch.”

“What would he do something like that for?”

“If you can find out, there’s a golden boy in it for you.”

“It don’t sound like Vulch. He usually only does things like that for money, or if he’s sore at somebody. You know, like some man beat him out on a girl he’s after.” She gave Coffen’s elbow a nudge. “You better watch your step, Mr. Pattle. If he hears you’re sitting here at the inn talking to me too much, he might be after you.”

“I’ll risk it,” Coffen said, with a grin.

Then he finished off his ale and left, satisfied with his morning’s work. Vulch had some feud going with Byron right enough. Ten to one it was Vulch who’d tossed the rock.

Coffen finally got to see his ghost that night. “Since you’ll be out looking and I’ll be out looking, we might as well go together,” Coffen said to Prance, as they sat over their port and cigars that evening.

Prance didn’t like to say in front of Byron that he was using Grace as his guide. Not that Byron would mind, but he would almost certainly assume the guiding was but a pretext for more intimate doings. Prance had never sunk to seducing his hosts’ servants and had no intention of doing it now. In fact, as he remembered that instant of sheer terror when the shot had been fired the other night, he hardly felt like going out at all.

“You ain’t afraid of being shot, I hope?” Coffen asked, with a lowering brow. “No one in his right mind would mistake you for Byron.”

“If they could mistake you for him, they could mistake me.”

“I was limping.” He turned to his host, “No offence, Byron.”

“None taken.”

“So are you coming or not?” Coffen persisted.

“Not,” he said, and found an excuse. “Since I shall be busy with the Christmas party tomorrow, I must continue with the research for my gothic novel tonight.” He turned to Byron to discourage Coffen’s importunities. “I thought I might put that tale you were telling us about your uncle shooting the Chawton fellow as a basis for the feud that has grown up between the lady’s family and the gentleman’s in my book. I shall see if I can find any mention of it in your archives. In my book, the victim’s ghost shall return and wreak havoc on the hero.”

“A sort of Romeo and Juliet gothic?” Byron asked, consideringly.

Was there a glint of amusement in those Atlantic eyes? “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms,” Prance replied.

“What, is it a
love
story you’re doing?” Coffen demanded angrily. “Don’t tackle it, Reg. Everybody knows you ought to write about what you know.”

“You are forgetting Lady Chamaude,” Prance sniffed, with the injured air of the heartbroken.

“No, I ain’t, for you never shut up about her.”

Prance’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he would not allow himself to sink to childish squabbling in front of Byron. “A gothic with a soupçon of romance is what I have in mind. Not a love story per se.”

“Whatever you’re writing, don’t wreck it like you wrecked King Arthur’s story in your
Rondeaux
by being as dull as ditch water, leaving out all the good parts and putting them annoying little notes at the bottom of every page. Nobody reads them. Don’t forget the clanking chains and secret locked doors and a good, black-hearted villain. A black curtain is good, too.”

Prance said with awful politeness, “One is always happy to receive advice from an expert, but I had hoped to do something beyond the merely generic, Radcliffe sort of thing. Thank you for your advice all the same.”

“You’re welcome. Glad to help.”

With a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, Prance turned to Byron. “About Romeo and Juliet, I do like the notion of unrequited love.”

“My favorite kind,” Byron agreed, “so long as I am the unrequitor, and not the unrequitee. Although my recent experience along that line has been somewhat troublesome.”

“If you want to put a little love in it, you’ve chosen the right kind anyhow,” Coffen said forgivingly. “Daresay you know something about uninvited love, if that means the kind where the fellow don’t get the girl.”

“The word actually is unrequited,” Prance said, “though I daresay your substitution is not inapropos.”

“Yes,” Coffen agreed vaguely. “Anyhow, you’re missing a dandy chance to go ghost hunting. It’s the winter solstice. That’s bound to lure them up out of their graves.”

“Where did you pick up that ignorant superstition?” Prance asked.

“From you. I remember it very well. You mentioned in London that we’d be here for the winter solstice, and solstices are the time for such things.”

“It is the time for unusual occurrences according to pagan beliefs, is what I said. Well, I pray thee hold me excused. And by the by, the solstice is only one night, and this is not the night.”

“When is it, then?”

“On December the twenty-first.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

After the gentlemen joined the ladies, Byron and Prance went off to consider decorations for the grand hall, where the party was to be held. Luten, Coffen and Corinne sat around the grate, Mrs. Ballard having complained of a headache and left.

“First chance we’ve had for a word,” Coffen said to Luten. “Corinne told you about last night?”